The Road to Rehabilitation
by Destined To Repeat
Summary: Ed kept going as if Roy had never spoken. "Mind over matter," he declared stubbornly, stabbing a finger at Mustang. "I just won't eat." "Okay," said Roy, bemused. "Don't."
1. Day One

The Road to Rehabilitation

**DAY ONE:**

"And, yes, I _can_ freakin' do that, as you so elegantly put it, Fullmetal," Roy Mustang continued, eyes half closed as if in utter disinterest, ignoring the sputtering and flush-faced teenager in front of him. "I'm afraid you've managed to cross yet another line that you shouldn't have."

The boy's eyes widened in fury at the insinuation, his fists curled hard, as he growled angrily, "I'm not one of your loyal little puppies, Mustang. I'm not going to roll over and fetch and go along with all your games--find someone else to play God with!"

The colonel only sighed at that, and Ed ground his teeth. "If only it was as under my control as you think it is. Unfortunately, this is hardly as much a punishment as it is a consequence. And you still have no idea why I've called you here at all, I see." He glanced over at the boy and the boy _glared_ back, but Roy could see the dawning anxiety underneath. He smirked. He wasn't feeling particularly generous toward the brat, especially after this latest incident, so he'd let him squirm for a bit. "Amazing how such a so-called genius can be so magnificently _stupid,_ isn't it?"

_"You're_ the one who dubbed me a genius," Fullmetal muttered, _just _on the verge of losing his temper. "At least_ I _don't pretend you're ever anything other than an idiot. And in case you haven't noticed, it's also your fault that I don't know why I'm here, or why you're being particularly moronic today, or why you just randomly decided to _cut my funds off entirely!"_

Mustang closed his eyes and sighed again. "Great mysteries of our time indeed," he mused, the slightest tone of mocking in his voice, almost-not-quite implying that if Ed was worth his weight in beans he would know these things.

Ed snarled. "Well, would you care to enlighten me, All-Knowing One?"

It was time to bring this little game to a close. "Library fines, Fullmetal."

Fullmetal looked surprised, maybe by the Colonel letting up so quickly. "What about them?"

"Your affinity to them. In ridiculous quantities."

"Darn it, Mustang!" Fullmetal yelled, at last losing his patience. "Spit it out!"

"It's hardly a riddle," Mustang murmured calmly, internally marveling at the boy's denseness regarding any matter that wasn't alchemy. "You racked up a small fortune in overdue fees. And I simply can't afford to reimburse you. Therefore, that same amount is being taken directly out of your paycheck, and because of the magnificent debt you have, that means having no military funds for a week." Ed opened his mouth, furious rant at the ready, but Mustang cut him off, steepling his fingers and leaning forward, "What I want to know, Fullmetal, is _how on earth_ you managed to collect such a monstrous fine!"

"I _used the library_, what on earth were you _expecting?"_ Fullmetal retorted. "Besides, how monstrous can it be?"

"One thousand, eight hundred forty-seven marks," the colonel said flatly, as an answer to both questions. Ed stared.

The teenager's mouth worked for a moment, opening and closing stupidly until finally he managed a, "We _are _talking library fines, right?"

"My reaction precisely," Roy sighed. "However, we are indeed talking library fines, though _how_ you managed to unintentionally set a national overdue fine record is beyond me…." His voice trailed off in a half-question, prompting Edward to fill in the blank.

"Well…." Ed said reluctantly. "I have had a few books out for a while…."

"'A few' meaning what?" said Roy.

"…Maybe a dozen."

"…'A while' meaning what?" said Roy, lifting one hand to rub the bridge of his nose.

"…About two years."

Another sigh. A pause.

"Dare I ask _why_ you would consider it normal to keep a library book for years on end?" the Colonel muttered, close to losing his own patience.

"Well, if I returned the books and came back for them later, somebody might have taken them out!" Ed said defensively. "Or worse, got their grimy paws on them! There were ketchup stains all over one of the ancient texts I found. Ketchup stains, Mustang!"

"I understand your alarm, Fullmetal," Mustang deadpanned, deciding that this was _not _going to be an enjoyable week. "But that is entirely beside the point. If you hold on to library books beyond the span of time policy allows, you will be fined. That's all there is to it."

"I thought that my overdue fees were shuffled off to you," Ed mused. "That's why I never worried about them."

"Then it's past time to learn a lesson in consequences," said Roy, looking pointedly at Ed, who in turn glowered childishly at his shoes. "Equivalent exchange, Fullmetal--you of all people should know there's no such thing as a free lunch." He paused. "And if you don't find a way to get money elsewhere, there won't be _any_ lunch. Or breakfast. Or dinner."

That, at least, seemed to drive the point home. Ed's head snapped up, horrified. "No money at all for a _week?"_ he cried. "How am I supposed to _eat?"_

"Let me give you an invaluable piece of advice, Fullmetal," the Colonel said lowly. "This particular piece of advice is at the core of countless life lessons, and I can guarantee that if you learn it well it will greatly help you in many times to come." Fullmetal leaned closer unconsciously, curious but trying not to show it. Mustang smirked. "Get Money. And besides," he added, trying not to laugh at the brat's taken aback expression, "the human body can last up to a week without food. At least you won't die. Probably."

Fullmetal jumped indignantly to his feet, arms waving wildly. "Fine! _Fine!"_ he screamed. "I just _won't eat!_ I _won't_ earn money and I won't eat at all, and we'll _see_ about your little starvation lesson!"

"I'm not trying to teach you how to starve. This is a lesson on awareness of funds and responsible spending," Mustang interjected, but Ed kept going as if Roy had never spoken.

"Mind over matter," he declared stubbornly, stabbing a finger at Mustang. "I just won't eat."

"Okay," said Roy, bemused. "Don't."

Fullmetal turned and stalked out of the office, slamming the door so hard behind him that the pens on Roy's desk jumped.

Roy surveyed the door for a moment, then shrugged and returned to his paperwork.


	2. Day Two

--When I got my first review I did this little squirm of joy in my seat. And then the next day I got FOUR REVIEWS, and just--wow, I can't even figure out what to say. (deep breaths) I'm going to have this goofy grin on my face all day now. See, here it is-- :DDDD  
In short: ~ Thank you for reviewing!  
And now before you think I'm _completely_ insane, I will shut up. Here we go.

**DAY TWO:**

Ed plodded through the streets of Eastern in a half-daze, one hand on his stomach and the other dangling at his side, his stomach whimpering miserably. He could almost hear it moaning at him, whining like some vengeful ghost come to haunt its torturers, _"Whyyy didn't you liiiiisten to Mustanggggg…? Whyyyy couldn't yooooouu swallow your priiiiiide for ooooonce…?"_

Or maybe that was Al's angry lecture echoing in his subconscious.

"Shut up…." he muttered to whichever, or both, or whoever could make the pathetic whimpering stop.

Right. His stomach. Food. _Foooood…._

It was time to rethink the plan. Or, actually, it was time to readjust the plan, because his plans getting _rethought_ implied that his plans got trashed, and Edward Elric's plans did not get trashed, they got…altered. It was time to _fine-tune_ the plan, it was time to…well, okay, it was time to trash the plan, swallow his pride, GET. FOOD. GET FOOD _NOW._

That was the new plan. Ed liked it already.

Of course, the new plan also required admitting defeat, which was another thing Edward Elric did not do.

_A lesson on awareness of funds and responsible spending my eye,_ he grumbled to himself. This was just another excuse for that slimy, two-faced jerk to point and laugh while Ed _starved_; and while Ed's original plan had eliminated that particular problem and had, in general, been quite flawless in theory….

He had been fine through the evening--had come home and explained the situation to Al, who had immediately jumped to Ed's stomach's defense and told him he was an utter and complete idiot, and tried to convince him to find some way to get food, if not beg Mustang on bended knee to allow a _tiny_ release on his punishment.

The latter was _not_ happening. Ever. Even if Ed starved to death and came back to life and starved again it would never happen.

So Ed had insisted that he was tough and manly and had lost and arm and a leg and had survived _Izumi_ for God's sake, he could last a week without three balanced meals a day, no problem.

In the morning his stomach was slightly displeased with his lack of dinner, but definitely bearable. Ed could deal with that. He could totally deal with that.

So he had breezed into the office to report, or more specifically to gloat about how well Project Ignore-Mustang-Completely was going, and proceeded to get into a shouting match with the Colonel, who was, as usual, a total idiot and smirked in that irritating smirky way of his like he knew--like he _knew_, the arrogant kiss-up--that eventually Ed would crack and he, Mustang, would be left victorious.

Around lunch time, especially with the smell of greasy, fatty, delicious food everywhere, his stomach began to protest more…vocally, and maybe the Colonel heard it because he just sort of smirked _all day_, which was especially jerky even for him, and the smirkiness only increased when Ed finally yelled, trying not be mortified about his loudly-gurgling stomach, "It's not my fault I'm eating for two!"

Mustang looked at him kind of funny and then said, calm as always, "Congratulations, Fullmetal. Is it a boy or girl?"

It took Ed a really long to figure that one out. For the first few minutes he stood there stammering and ranting and confused, that Al was a boy, _duh_--until finally it hit him, and Mustang smirked some more while Ed gaped. But Ed was not--_not_--going to worry about how long the realization took, because at least that was an indication that he wasn't as _naturally perverted_ as some people, _some people_ being Mustang.

Anyway, by the time the work day was over and everybody else went home to eat, Ed was wandering the streets and holding on to his pitifully grumbling stomach and wondering what the heck he should do now.

Ed was so hungry he was (almost) beyond caring what Mustang thought anymore. So what if he admitted defeat? At least he wouldn't be passed out from starvation in the middle of an alleyway. He was hungry darnit! And if asking around for jobs and getting just enough to eat by doing work like waiting tables and taking out trash and cleaning toilets, then as long as Mustang didn't catch wind of it (which he would, because he was an infuriating jerk that way), he'd do it.

By now his stomach narration was done preaching at him and had fallen along the lines of, _"Oh my God, Ed, stop postulating and get me foooood alreadyyyyy…."_

If there was anything Ed agreed with at that moment, it was that. So he stopped postulating and went to get food already.

Except for the tiny detail that most stores were closed by past-dinner time.

---

Knock-knock-knock.

"Hey, kid, this is the employees' entrance, no customers allowed."

"I know, look, I need a job. Do you need an extra waiter or…table-wiper, or…person-who-hands-out-menus?"

"Those are all the same job."

"Oh."

A pause.

"Well, do you have anything that has to be done that you would pay me to do?"

"Yeah, I need this brat knocking on my back door and bothering me to go away."

"Ha-ha, very funny, Mister, but seriously. Just a week. _I'll _pay _you _afterward."

"Kid. Who do you think you are? If you want a job you gotta apply like everybody else."

"I know, I know, but I just got cut off my funds yesterday and I didn't have time to--"

_"Cut off your funds?_ Like military funds?"

"Yeah, so I _really_ need a job. I can fix stuff too. Really well--"

"There's no way. You can't be older than twelve."

"I'm _fourteen_, you blind, undereducated idiot!"

"Who are you calling undereducated, _pipsqueak?!"_

"Who are you calling pipsqueak,_ undereducated….guy?!"_

"I'll have you know I went to university for a full four years!"

"I'm still growing!"

"Well, you're going remarkably slowly."

"GEAAAAH!"

The shriek of frustration was heard all through the back of the cafe and into the main area. Some customers wondered whose cat was dying.

_ "Forget it! _My skills would be wasted in this dump!"

"Like I would hire a stunted brat of a state alchemist anyway!"

"WHO ARE YOU CALLING STUNTED?!"

The door slammed shut.

---

Knock-knock-knock.

"Don't tell me you got locked out again, Fred--oh." A blink. "Hello?"

"Hi…. Um…you got any jobs available? I'll do basically anything."

"Uh…." Eyes shift. This guy had no idea what to do.

"Can I talk to your boss?"

A slightly offended expression. "I am the boss."

"Oh."

A pause.

"Well, can I clean up or help with giving out prescriptions or something?"

"You need specific training to do that."

"…Cleaning up then?"

"I'm sorry, drug stores don't really require all that much cleaning…."

"Can we pretend they do? I'll pay you back twice as much as you pay me, promise. I really need a job."

A sincerely apologetic expression. "I'm sorry…I can't afford to hire anyone right now."

Again: "Oh."

Awkward silence.

"I'm really sorry. Try the restaurant down Redhorn on the left--The Green Lion--I know the owner, he's a good guy."

"Alright. Thanks."

"No problem. Sorry I can't help."

The door closed.

---

…Knock-knock-knock.

"WHAT?!"

A few startled steps back. "Wh--I just--"

"I'M A LITTLE BUSY RIGHT NOW."

"I can…." Warily. "I can see that, actually. I really need a job, I can start working now--"

He stopped. "You want a job? Who are you?"

"Um. Edward Elric, I--"

"Edward Elric…." Beard-scratch, a short pause. "Name sounds familiar. I can't put my finger on it…."

"I was sent here by the owner of Wholesale Pharmacy, down Nickel Drive."

"Oh, you're one of his?" A half-smile. "What did you say you wanted?"

"A job."

A distracted look over his shoulder. Strange clanking noises and loud shouts coming from the kitchen. "Can we schedule an interview later?"

"I actually really need a job tonight…please? I'm a good worker…?"

"I can't just hire you when I don't have the slightest clue who you are, that would be irrespon--" A high-pitched screech of metal and what sounded like someone bursting into hysterical tears. More yelling. "You know what, come on in, I'll deal with it later. We need a hand in the kitchen." He stepped aside, looking more frazzled than ever, and Ed grinned in relief and walked inside.

The man gave him one look-over, maybe checking for a gun or something just in case, and his eye paused over the watch chain at Ed's hip. The man looked at Ed, then at the chain again.

"Edward Elric," he said again, slowly, in belated realization. Ed swallowed and nodded.

And then he was summarily thrown out of the restaurant.

---

But Ed was starving, darnit, and he was not going to give his dinner up that easily.

"Please?" he cried, clawing at the locked door.

"No!" the man shouted back. "You should have plenty of money--you leech enough out of _us."_

Ed winced. "My salary got revoked, _please?"_

"No! Go away before I shoot you!"

---

"Please?"

"No."

"Please?"

_ "No."_

"Please?"

_ "No!"_

"Please?"

"NO!"

….

"Please?"

"GO AWAY!"

---

"Look, I don't care if you don't give me money, I just want food, I'm _staaaarving…."_

"Go away, kid."

"I'll starve to death here on your back door. You would listen to a little kid _die?"_

"Go. Away."

"I can feel the darkness creeping up on me…" Cough. "Oh, Al, I'm so sorry it had to end like this…." Cough. Cough. Groan.

"Get food somewhere else."

"Nobody will give me any. I guess I'll just transmute a coffin while I'm here…. Don't wanna give my little brother more trouble over my death than I have to."

"…."

---

"Please?"

"NO!"

---

"...Okay, I'll bite--why don't you have any money?"

"My commanding officer took away all of my funds. The shoe-licking freak."

"Why?"

"I don't know. I can only assume he was born that way."

"No, I mean, why did he take away your money?"

"I got a coupla library fines, that's all. He totally overreacted."

"So he took away your money?"

"Apparently to teach me 'awareness of funds and responsible spending.'" Bad imitation of Mustang's voice. A muffled laugh from the other side of the door.

"When was that?"

"…Yesterday afternoon?"

"So you haven't had food in, what? Thirty-odd hours?"

"It feels a lot longer than it sounds."

"And you're hungry."

_ "Starving."_

"Hm."

….

"Please?"

….

"Mister?"

….

"Don't tell me he _left!"_

Just as the sentence left his mouth the door opened under him, and Ed practically toppled into the restaurant headfirst. A wrapped up, meaty-smelling box was shoved into his hands.

"There. That should get you through the night," said the man.

Ed looked down at the food, feeling dangerously close to crying out of pure relief. The box steamed promisingly. "What? Got a sudden case of morals?"

"No. Go home, kid. You're really annoying."


	3. Day Three

XxForest-DragonxX, Red rose, stabbythings, Gabrielle, camiimary, snowprincessMossy, AnimeCookie93, ArtificialRed, Orange Singer: Thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you! You guys are awesome, seriously, after I read your reviews I called one of my friends and just GIGGLED for ten minutes straight (blows kisses)

ntai78: ahhh, that's not even the worst of it, wait and see what he does next time (shakes head sadly) I can just see it: "Wait a minute, you're supposed to be starving!"

shinespire: Thank you so muchly! Voulez-vous, hors d'œuvre!

Kame-tan: That is one-hundred-percent worth it. In fact, that's just about the best compliment I've ever gotten (crazy grin) I like getting into Roy's head. My mother wants to know if there's a reason why I snap while I write. If only she knew... (I clap sometimes too.) :D

And of course, natureismagic: Shut up. I'll get around to it. Can I just give you a little something-something to tide you over? First page or so? ;)

And now, the actual story. Onward!  
****

DAY THREE:

"You seem...happier today."

Ed scowled. "Like I said--it's all about mind over matter. It took me a few days to get used to not eating, but after that…." He waved his arm in front of him dismissively.

"Really," Mustang smirked. "Because I had heard something about you _begging_ at businesses' back doors."

Ed kept his face carefully blank (he hoped) and said noncommittally, "You can't believe everything you hear."

"Hmm," was Mustang's only reply, and he leaned forward on his elbows, smirking into his steepled fingers. "Good. Then the fact that today is the Fuhrer's birthday shouldn't worry you at all."

"What does the Fuhrer's birthday have to do with anything?"

"Well, nothing in particular. There is a dinner party--to which you are not invited, because of your…considerable protests to official functions of any kind…." Ed glared, but perhaps not as murderously as he would have yesterday, with his meals already secured. And, okay, he did feel sort of bad about going back to the restaurant and asking for a job again, but he really did need food. So either that or he would beg again, which was maybe more likely.

"And of course it's also a national holiday, so all the stores are closed," the Colonel added.

Ed froze.

National. Holiday. All. So. Also. Stores. . Random words filtered into Ed's horror-numbed consciousness, but his brain refused to comprehend the message.

Also. Stores. All. Course. National. Closed. Holiday.

Holiday. Closed. National. All. Stores.

National. Holiday. All. Stores. Closed.

_ National holiday, all stores closed._

"How long have you been planning this?!" Ed cried, on the verge of tears.

If Mustang's smirk got any wider it would crack his face in half.

_Ohh,_ Ed could only hope.

---

Al was less than impressed with his job-hunting skills the day before. He seemed very intent on repeating, over and over again, until Ed could recite it with him in a deeply irritated voice, "It's better to put a little more effort into a job when you first do it than to be making up for your laziness for the rest of your life, yes, I _get_ it, Al."

But Ed could never bring himself to get more than mildly frustrated with Al's nagging, because, well…Al was Al. Ed might not be quite as perceptive as Al was when it came to people, but there were a select few that Ed was hyper-sensitive to, and Al was on the top of that list. He knew, even if he didn't let on, that as Al began to forget what sensation was like, how ice cream sandwiches tasted, how it felt to walk barefoot through the grass, how it felt to get a cold, what rain smelled like--he became almost obsessed with making sure Ed didn't miss out on a single thing that Al was missing.

Al reminded him every night to go to sleep, no matter what, even though he himself couldn't sleep and it shouldn't have made a different to him. And Al had a similar attachment to eating. Ed wondered if _Al_ even knew about his little, almost-endearing, almost-heartrending quirk.

In the end, Ed could never blame Al for worrying about his wellbeing. So the blame got inevitably shifted to Mustang. Not that Mustang didn't deserve it.

"I know, I'm sorry, Al. I was hungry and I just wanted to get some food. I should have thought of something more insurable," Ed muttered, trudging through the side streets around Headquarters, Al beside him. "It's all that conniving psycho's fault."

"Psycho?" said Al, thoughtfully. "You're branching out with your insults, aren't you."

"His idiocy is branching out, too," grumped Ed, kicking a pebble unfortunate enough to get in his way. "And you know what they say about fighting fire…."

They walked in silence for a few minutes, Ed thinking about the mess they were in and getting increasingly annoyed until finally he burst, "This has got to be illegal! I'll bet if we tell the military what Mustang's doing, they'll make him stop!"

"I don't think they will," Al sighed. "I checked out some old law records while you were out--apparently the ability to take away funds for up to two weeks at a time is assuming that the soldier has saved up some money beforehand."

"And Mustang was assuming that I hadn't," Ed finished, flatly.

"Which you hadn't," said Al, in a scolding sort of voice; but Ed knew he was just doing what he felt was his brotherly duty--he was as sick of being angry as Ed was sick of being rebuked.

They walked some more in silence.

"We could explain the situation to Colonel Mustang," Al suggested finally.

Ed's teeth bared in a feral snarl. "He _knows_ the situation. He knows it so well he looks like he wants to burst out laughing every time he sees me. It would be much more productive to kidnap and torture him until he gives my money back. …And it would relieve some of my stress too," he added hopefully.

Al sighed, but didn't say no, so Ed took that as a 'only if it's completely necessary.'

As they walked Ed's eyes swept back and forth across the street in a sort of distracted, aimless search, and his gaze latched onto a violinist playing by the side of the street. He stopped.

Al followed Ed's eyes. "No," he said immediately.

"Oh, come on," said Ed, wheedling, the beginnings of a smile bright on his face. "What other choice do we have?"

"Neither of us can play an instrument," he pointed out.

"I could sing."

"Please don't."

Ed frowned. "Well, I mean...." He fumbled for a response and then gave up. So maybe he wasn't the best singer in the world. "We must have _some_ kind of marketable talent!"

Al turned to him and titled his head, and Ed was very familiar with the look he would have had on his face. "You're the definition of marketable talent."

"True," said Ed, taking that as a compliment.

There was a pause,_ just_ long enough for Ed to stop and consider that.

"Alchemy," he realized.

"Please tell me you aren't thinking what I think you're thinking," Al groaned.

"I think I'm thinking what you think I'm thinking," said Ed, grinning this-close-to-maniacally.

"Please don't be thinking what I think you're thinking, because then I'll have to say no, and then you'll sulk, and because you'll be sulking all evening you won't get any food, so you'll be hungry, and miserable, and you'll be grumpy and make _me_ miserable, and then we'll _both_ be miserable!"

"We could perform alchemy on the street!" Ed cried.

"Oh," said Al, relieved. "I thought you wanted to transmute gold again."

There was another pause, long enough for Ed to consider that, too.

"That's a better idea. Let's do that."

"Brother!"

"Fine, _fine,"_ Ed shouted, cutting Al's protests off mid-way. "I promised I wouldn't do it again unless it was a matter of life and death, so how about this--If I go forty-eight hours straight without food, that's life or death. Okay?"

"...You just want to perform alchemy on the street," said Al.

"Mayyybe," Ed hummed, grinning hugely.

"Ham," said Al. "Fine."

"No talking food," said Ed, elbowing Al's side. "I'm hungry enough as it is. Let's go find a good street."

"The corners right around Headquarters are pretty central," Al offered, although his tone knew that Ed would never agree to it.

And, true to form, he didn't. "That's just asking for the Colonel to find us and tease me about it for the rest of my life," Ed scowled. "Nowhere near Headquarters."

---

So instead they found a corner by the train station, which was not nearly as busy as _any_ of the corners around Headquarters, but worth it to Ed, who still felt as if he should do his utmost to avoid any smirkiness even if it _was _inevitable.

On the plus side, it was rush hour, so the train station was as busy as it ever was on national holidays. Al transmuted a large can for the money (Ed suggested they use Al's head--Al...disagreed), looked idly around the street and when nothing particularly mind-blowing happened, shrugged at each other and went about coming up with the flashiest way to do alchemy that they could.

They concluded after a few fifteen minutes that Ed's alchemy was more eye-catching, but Al's was less likely to actually take out an eye. Therefore...nothing important was concluded, because Al put efficiency universes before flashiness, and Ed pretty much figured that whoever was stupid enough to get in the way of his alchemy deserved whatever they got. In the end they decided upon a few bigger, collaborative transmutations, but mostly they would work separately. Ed clapped and knelt and turned the street into a stage. Al made little toys and sculptures and even likenesses of the people walking by.

They were two of the most talented alchemists in Amestris, probably the best alchemists their age in the entire world. The idea that they might not get as much money as they'd like never crossed their minds.

---

That is, until they realized in one sudden, horrified moment that that could very well happen. Not that it was in any way on account of _their_ skill--no, Ed and Al were in perfect form, if they may say so themselves. But the people coming off the trains, men and women and kids and pets and everything in between just passed them by. Some glanced once their way, frowned, and continued walking, and some glanced once their way, dropped a crumpled bill into the can, eyes still straight ahead, and continued walking. Most just ignored them.

Quite a few kids stopped, eyes wide and delighted as they watched Al make a rocking horse out of a chalk circle and a clap of his hands. They'd gasp in astonishment as Ed changed the color of his hair, and Ed would grin and offer to do it to them, too.

And that was around the time when the kid's mother would show up and drag the little boy or girl away, the kid still sneaking glances over his shoulder at them.

Then there were those that stopped, watched them for a while, and tossed them a few marks or a couple hundred cenz before continuing down the street.

But mostly the passersby just ignored them.

Ed felt violated.

"People are busy when they get back from trips. They just want to get home and relax," Al explained, words placating but voice pretty violated-sounding too.

"Well, I'd love to go home and relax, but I can't because these _stupid people_ can't spare a second to watch one of the most complicated, developed and redeveloped, sciences known to man!" Ed huffed back, throwing his arms up in frustration, because if anything could get him irritated--aside from Mustang--it was a lack of appreciation for alchemy.

They sat on the edge of the little stage, dangling their feet over the side and looking hopefully for more people, preferably rich people, preferably people who appreciated the nuances of alchemy, but none were forthcoming as far as they could tell.

Or, at least, Al looked hopefully. He was always the more optimistic of the two of them. Ed frowned and sighed and fidgeted and squirmed and twiddled and frowned some more and cursed the stupidity of the common man coming off a train and cursed his growling stomach and Mustang and the military and Mustang.

At _last _Al asked quietly, "How much money do we have?" Which was to say, even _he_ had given up. They weren't getting any more.

Ed leaned over--_finally;_ he was starting to seriously consider eating what was left of his own limbs-- and picked up the can, turning the contents over into his lap.

He counted what was there and said, "Three marks and nineteen cenz."

There was a short, sullen silence.

"My alchemy isn't worth... one mark and fifty-nine and a half cenz!" Ed cried, outraged, throwing the can across the street, where it disappeared into the shadows with a series of loud clangs. It was starting to get really dark. "And neither is yours!"

"...No," sad Al, slowly. "But a burger is. And maybe fries too, depending on where we go." Well, at least Al had his priorities straight.

Ed glared at the small pile of money in his lap. It'd be so much easier just to transmute up some gold....

His stomach growled.

There was another pause.

"Fine," Ed muttered, blushing, one hand on his belly. It was hard to keep up whatever dignity he had left when his stomach kept whimpering pathetically like that. "Let's go."

"...Don't you want to transmute the stage back into the road?"

"Nah. Let the police deal with it. No one had any idea of who we were anyway. There's no way they can pin it on me, because nobody even knows we were here," Ed said, and transmuted a rude word into the pavement for good measure.


	4. Day Four

SO many thanks, again, to the amazing reviews and readers and the world in general! You guys are FABULOUS! ( Especially YOU! (cheesy wink)) :D  
Aaand….

AnimeCookie93: Thank you! Yeah, they do balance each out well, don't they? I happen to love the two of them, their chemistry together. One thing I think some authors forget is that Al GREW UP with Ed… Al does have a milder personality, but if he was THAT mild, Ed would've bulldozed him into the ground when they were kids. Haha! Al does put up with a lot! Hope you got my long scientifical thingy about the hair…. ;)  
dreamschemer: That's a good point. Which I actually address (I think…?) this chapter…. I've always loved those parts in the show!  
iMac15: (laughs) Yes, that makes Ed fun to write. His 'splosion tendencies are another nice thing about him, too :DD Thank you!! Flair…. I have flair… God, I love you. A long, exclamation-point-soaked review full of caps…. (reverent sigh) Oh my God, I can just see Ed convincing himself that blowing up a building is the way to go. Mugging?! I WISH I HAD THOUGHT OF THAT!! XD …. "Too late, Al." lololololol…

:D And on to the show. In which Ed Cannot Seem To Keep His Mouth Shut. A.k.a, Al To The Rescue!  
A slightly more serious note (...?) With a mention of Hughes! Huzzah!

**DAY FOUR:**

"So. You put on quite a little show last night, I hear."

Dear lord, _how?_ "I don't know what you're talking about," Ed replied flatly.

"I've gotten quite an impressive amount of angry reports from police officers around the station area," Mustang murmured, disregarding Ed's attempt at indifference altogether.

"As if the military has ever cared about police reports," Ed muttered, slumping further into the couch.

Mustang ignored that too. "I quite think that you underestimate just how much paperwork you cause. You do realize that if I actually _did_ all the paperwork I should--ninety percent of which has something to do with you--I would never leave this office?"

"Who even said it was me?" Ed demanded, glare growing sulkier and even more irritated. "And, for your information, I still have no idea what you're talking about."

"Your little message was hardly a nom de plume," the Colonel said lightly, ignoring him _again,_ and Ed was too hungry to be dealing with this.

"You can't punish me for something that isn't there," the teenager declared, loftily. "If you were even slightly as omniscient as you pretend to be, then you would know that it's already been fixed."

"Yes," said Mustang. "Please send my thanks to Alphonse."

That earned another expression Ed seemed to use a lot when dealing with his commanding officer: chagrined disbelief. "I don't know _where_ you get your information," Ed growled, one finger pointed at Mustang, "but when I find out--and trust me, I _will find out_--whoever's been telling you all this stuff is going to _pay_ for every single annoying thing you've ever done to me."

Mustang smiled into his hands at his own personal joke. "He would deserve it."

"Yeah, he would de--Wait a minute, who are we talking about?"

"It would seem that you've taken a step in the right direction--earning money instead of begging at doors," the Colonel said instead of an answer, suddenly back to the usual business and formality.

"I already told you, it wasn't begging," Ed snapped, annoyed but not distracted. "Why would this guy deserve payback? It's not his fault you're a jerk."

"I believe that you are contradicting yourself, Fullmetal," Mustang said, mildly.

Ed ignored him. "I mean, you'd be _his_ commanding officer, too, so it would hardly be his fault if...." He stopped; started again. "Unless he's someone close to you...."

Mustang just _looked_ at him, eyebrows slightly raised.

"Which means he's one of your subordinates, because as far as I can tell you hate all of your _superiors_, and not Hawkeye 'cause you said 'he'...."

The Colonel still hadn't moved or reacted at all. Ed wondered if that meant he was getting righter or wronger.

He continued theorizing anyway. "And someone who you're particularly close to, because you said he would deserve it, which you wouldn't say unless you were on really, really comfortable terms with him...."

One eyebrow twitched up. Ed guessed that he was getting closer.

"So that leaves... Havoc...Fuery's too nice, I'm positive he wouldn't do that, and anyway, even _you_ wouldn't say he deserved punishment for _your_ shortcomings. But Breda...Falman...Hughes...." Ed paused. "And possibly Armstrong," he added, tentatively.

That got a smirk. Ed scowled. "Fine, so not Armstrong. Am I close?"

"...Relatively," said Mustang, slowly, as if each syllable was carefully weighed and considered before being voiced; which was yet another of Mustang's quirks that irritated Ed. How was it that the man had so much control _all the time? _How did he never blurt out the very words he _didn't _want to say, like Ed always seemed to do in Mustang's presence?

"On a more relevant note, Fullmetal," the Colonel cleared his throat, "I believe we need to review the terms of contract that you agreed to when you accepted this job as a state alchemist."

"And a fat lot of good that job's doing me," Ed replied, as sulky as a teenager who'd finally resigned to punishment. Which was, upon further thought, exactly what he was.

Mustang ignored him. "I'm sure as.._.competent_ as you are," he said, and Ed shot him a sideways _drop dead_ glare in exchange for the obvious sarcasm, "you have, of course, carefully studied and looked into the details of your military contract...." And he trailed off, because Ed obviously hadn't. Finally Mustang continued, when Ed was appropriately uncomfortable, "but I think it quite time to remind you that state alchemists are prohibited from using their alchemy in any way to earn money outside immediate military control."

Ed glared. "I'd hardly call what I got money."

"Nevertheless," Mustang said, his voice thick with the barely-veiled smugness of being The One In Charge. "The point is that when you agree to belong to the military, you belong exclusively to the military."

"Mm," said Ed, mouth twisting into a half frown. It wasn't like he could argue with that. "You know, sometimes I wonder how on earth you got that ladies' man reputation you have. Or, more accurately, I wonder how any sane girl could manage a _conversation_ with you."

Mustang smiled that irritating smile of his, and Ed scowled outright. "I mean, I can only imagine you taking the girl out to dinner and then saying, oh, whoops, you got _quite_ a library fine fine there, sorry, you can't eat, but you don't mind if I order the fetuccini alfredo, do you?"

"And you, Fullmetal, have a better idea of how I should make the ladies happy?" the Colonel said, his lips twitching.

"Stay single," Ed suggested.

Mustang bit back a laugh. "Have you ever considered that perhaps I reserve such...favoritism just for you? Perhaps you should feel honored."

_ "Honored?"_ Ed cried. "Favoritism which way?!"

"Besides," the Colonel said, ignoring him _again,_ the jerkwad, "You have even less body mass to feed than most girls I would date--"

"WHO ARE YOU CALLING SO SMALL HE WOULD GET LOST IN AN AMOEBA, YOU SMIRKY MIRROR-OBSESSED IDIOT?!"

"Smirky?" said Mustang, smirking. Whoops. He hadn't meant to share that little adjective.

"Well....well," Ed floundered, a train in full speed run straight off its tracks.

"Forgot what you were saying, Fullmetal?" Mustang asked calmly, prying Ed's mind away _again_ just as he was about to get _back_ to what he was saying. "Maybe it's something wrong with your attention span; It _does_ seem to be unusually shor--"

"I. HATE. YOU. _SO_ MUCH."

---

_ Al got the better side of the deal,_ he thought, willing to give anything, at that moment, to not have to eat. He staggered through the streets of Eastern once again, looking around desperately for some way to get money, and more importantly, food, _without_ getting court-martialed.

Al really had gone back to put the stage in the middle of the road back to the way it was, after the guilt had been apparently bugging him all night; whereas the thought hadn't even crossed Ed's mind--he'd slept like a baby.

But the second Ed had woken up Al had cried all of the sudden, "They won't be able to fix it by themselves!"

It had taken a very long time for Ed to understand what the heck he was going on about, sleep-dazed as he was, and by the time he had muttered a still-mostly-uncertain-as-to-why-they-were-having-this-conversation-in-the-first-place, "yeah, you should go do that", Al was already out the door.

Which then left Ed to go to Headquarters by himself, and afterward, to hunt for nourishment by himself, because Al wasn't back yet. Maybe he had fallen into a ditch. Maybe he had gotten kidnapped. Maybe he had nabbed a cute girl, as frightening as that thought could be (for Ed, that is, who felt both ancient and violent whenever he thought of a girl trying to steal Al away from him). And maybe this made Ed a bad big brother, but at that moment he couldn't bring himself to even consider looking for Al. Al could take care of himself. He was a teenager now. He was a master alchemist. He was a seven-foot dynamo made of of _steel,_ for the love of God, he could keep himself out of trouble for a few hours while Ed got himself some food.

Well. Right now it seemed more like Al could keep himself out of trouble for a few hours while Ed starved to death and had his lifeless, malnourished body thrown into some alleyway dumpster.

_ Dumpster,_ he thought, the word sparking to life in his mind. _Sometimes there's food in dumpsters...._

He discarded the idea immediately. Somehow it would get back to Mustang, and he would never live that degree of humiliation down, not if Mustang had anything to say about it. The smirkiness would _never stop._

No, he would get food; and he would get it with his pride still intact.

---

Or, well. Mostly intact, anyway.

After some more aimless stumbling and mumbling to himself and getting himself lost and not even caring, that was how hungry he was, Ed flopped to his knees.

"What a lame way to die," he muttered, dropping face-down onto the cement, arms flapping limply after him. "I can just see the headlines: Fullmetal Alchemist Found Dead From Starvation. Colonel Mustang Fired For Neglect." He paused, smirked slightly into the ground at the thought of the second part of his imagined headline.

Then he sighed.

"Maybe this really is all my fault," he confessed to the sidewalk, too hungry to even attempt peeling himself off. "Maybe I should just...learn to put my priorities back in line." He stopped to consider that. "Al comes first, of course. Then I guess comes me and my health. And_ after_ that is disobeying every word Mustang says." Ed nodded a little, his cheek rubbing the floor.

Then he thought about that for a few minutes.

He snorted. The snort turned into a little snicker, which turned into a laugh, which turned into all-out hysterical laughter, leaving Ed doubled up and gasping for breath on the ground, his face red and his belly aching from _laughing_ for a change. He sat up a little and wiped his watering eyes. "Wheeew...." He let out one long, low breath, grinning hugely. "That was good. Heh... heh-heh..." Ed fell back to the ground, this time on his back, arms spread wide and his head tipped back, like a snow-less snow angel. Something big and dark stepped in front of his line of vision, blocking out the sun. "Heh...?"

"Um," said the figure.

Ed blinked up at it stupidly.

"Are you... hungry?" it ventured, after a short, bemused pause.

Ed wriggled to his knees and stood so fast that the girl took a step back and almost tripped over her own feet. Ed grabbed her arm, keeping her from falling, and asked, incredulous with joy, "Is that an offer? Please tell me that's an offer! Do you have food? Will you give it to me?" She opened her mouth to reply, warily, but Ed cut her off with a hug and an elated, "Thank you! Thank you so much! It's been _days_ since I last ate! Well, okay... one day, but _I'm so hungry_, thank you, you're my hero!"

Tentatively, she patted his back, and Ed finally let go. "You're welcome," she said wryly.

She led him down the street to a small business district a few minutes from where he had been stumbling around. Ed looked up and down the street. "Do you always welcome random strangers in for dinner?"

"It's sort of my job," she said, her tone wry again. She had to be younger than Ed. She was even shorter than him. Not... that Ed was short. Because he wasn't. But she seemed pretty young to have such a smart-mouth.

And, _yes_, he knew that she was probably exactly what he had been--well, still was.

But, hey, she had food. Who really cared who she was and who she resembled? Ed certainly didn't.

They stopped outside a short building marked "Fifth Street Soup Kitchen." She went straight in, and left Ed looking up at the sign, wondering what they were doing here.

"Aren't you coming?" she called, poking her head back out, giving Ed a weird look. Based on the way they...met, he figured she probably thought he was nothing short of insane.

"Coming? You mean you live here....?" Even before the last word was out of his mouth his brain was slowly putting two and two together. "Oh," he murmured.

"Well?" she said, impatient.

Ed looked out at the street, weighing his options, and then pursed his lips, just a little resentfully, and stepped into the soup kitchen.

The inside was even smaller than the outside indicated, maybe because every empty corner was filled with a table or a chair. If there was a spare inch in the whole building, Ed couldn't see it. Even more surprising that every single seat with filled, with men and women and kids, all with similar ratty brown clothing and haggard was a long, stainless-steel counter lining the whole back wall, and half a dozen employees, or volunteers, whichever, were serving food on blue trays. The whole place smelled like too many flavors mixed together, like orange juice and broccoli and garlic powder, all with the faint, underlying smell of burning plastic.

But. Food was food. Ed got in line in the front counter, the girl sliding behind it to help serve food.

"Your first time in a soup kitchen?" she asked. He nodded.

"What did you do before now?"

"Well... begging. Trying to earn money on street corners. Is it just me or do all the jobs disappear right when you need one?"

She grinned. "Well, we'll help you out until you can find one."

"I hope I can do that soon," he muttered, looking distrustfully at the food on the counter.

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Her face seemed slightly redder than usual. "And then after that maybe you can come back to volunteer. You know. Maybe. Maybe we'll see a lot of each other."

Ed looked at her, feeling like he missed something. "Yeah. Maybe."

He moved up in line and picked one of the trays. When he moved to sit down (marveling at the miracle that was free food), she came back around the counter and sat with him at one of the empty seats on a long, but still mostly full, table that stretched from wall to wall.

"So, what's your name?" she asked, putting her chin in her hands. She smiled. "I'm Mackie. Short for Mackenzie."

"Ed," said Ed. "Short for Edward."

"Yes, you are," she laughed.

"Hey, I am _not_ short! I'll have you know I'm exactly the right height for my weight!"

"That just means you're small all-around."

"Not small," he muttered crossly, bowing his head to eat before he he had a chance to lose his temper. He didn't want to yell at a girl. Especially not a girl who gave him food.

"I don't usually meet people my age here," Mackie mused, one hand still propping her head up, the other moving to tuck her flyaway hair back behind her ear. "But it's a nice change of pace."

"What, not having a job?" Ed blew on the beef-vegetable soup (or at least that's what it looked like) and then put it in his mouth, trying this new cuisine on for size. It wasn't bad at all. "Oh, yeah, it's a blast."

She just sighed. Her eyes wandered around the room, up around the rafters, past the long counter, around the tables. Ed followed the movement.

"Are you the daughter of the owner of this soup kitchen?" he asked, taking another bite.

She smiled wryly again. "I'm the owner."

Ed's spoon stopped halfway to his mouth. "You're kidding." He'd done this twice now within the past few days.

"Nope. I make most of the food myself. I look for volunteers. I clean up and lock the doors at the end of the day. I'm the one who does the budget balancing and donation-scrounging."

Ed couldn't help it. He stared. "And how old are you?"

"Twelve," said Mackie, a chagrined expression on her face, as if it pained her to admit it.

Al was twelve last year. Heck, Ed himself was twelve two years ago, when he signed into the military. But even that seemed like a minor burden in comparison to what Mackie was doing.

"Don't you have a family?" he asked. Only after it was out of his mouth did he realize how rude and invasive that question was.

She scowled. "That's exactly why I do this."

Ed wondered what that meant; but he didn't make the same mistake twice and ask. Instead he took another bite, already feeling the whining in his stomach begin to abate.

"Don't _you_ have a family?" Mackie asked. She clearly didn't care about rudeness or invasiveness. Ed supposed she had the right, as she was, you know. Giving him free food.

"A little brother," said Ed, which reminded him, where _was_ Al?

He and Mackie seemed to be on the same wavelength. "So where is he?"

"He already has a way to get food," he assured her. _Truth: He's a bodiless soul trapped inside a suit of armor, so I eat for him. _Somehow he didn't think that explanation would go over so well.

She nodded slowly, her eyes still on his face. "You aren't used to this kind of life, are you?"

Ed didn't know what to say to that.

"Your clothes are still pretty much new," she explains, gesturing in contrast over to the other people in the soup kitchen, who were lost in low conversation. "You're pretty dirty, but not as dirty as the rest of us. You obviously have never been inside a soup kitchen before today. And you still haven't sold that fancy-looking watch in your pocket. Is it important to you?"

"Well, now it's pretty much useless, but when I get my job back it will be really important, yeah," said Ed.

She frowned. "I thought you were looking for a job."

"I am. While I'm waiting for my other job to start giving me money again."

"Sounds like a stupid job," she commented, wrinkling her nose.

"You have no idea," Ed muttered.

"Why don't you quit?" Mackie suggested.

"I signed a contract. I can't quit until I'm seventeen," said Ed with a sigh. He had three more years to get Al's body back, or he'd be stuck in the military for another five after that. Until he was twenty-two. He didn't have time to be sitting around, playing whoever-admits-defeat-first-loses tug-of-war with Mustang.

"Contract?" Mackie murmured. "Must be a ritzy job."

"Relatively," Ed shrugged, then reminded himself of Mustang, and immediately felt like banging his head into a wall.

Mackenzie must have noticed his constipated expression because she tilted her head and said, "Where do you work, anyway?"

"Military," he said, scooping some spaghetti onto his spoon. He barely noticed when Mackie went stock-still.

"Military," she repeated faintly.

"Mhmm," he mumbled into his food, thinking that maybe she hadn't heard him clearly because of his full mouth.

But that illusion went flying out the window when Mackie burst into angry tears, and she took hold of Edward's tray and upturned it, spilling _perfectly good_ soup and noodles and chicken all over him.

"Wh--" he managed, stunned, before Mackie took him by the back of his hood, dragged him to the door, and sent him sprawling across the sidewalk. "Bu--"

"I hope you rot, you big fat liar!" she cried, looking somehow furious and lost and betrayed all at once. "I can't believe I was flirting with you!"

Then she slammed the door in his face, something to which Ed had become all too accustomed in the past few days, but for some reason this hurt a million times more, and he had no idea why.

For the first few minutes all he could think was, _She was flirting with me? Really?_

His next thought was, _Where's Al?_ And that distracted him enough to begin to get nervous.

The next thought after that was, _Man, I'm still hungry._

And after that, squashed before it could really get anywhere was, _I could eat the food off my clothes--no I can't, that's _weird, _Ed._

As it was, for once he did not have to go looking for the answers to these questions, because they came and found him. It was about time, too.

"Brother? What are you doing here? And, um, more importantly, what are you doing here, on the floor?"

"Oh, you know," he said, in a last-ditch attempt to salvage what was left of his pride. "Formulating the breakdown of cement. Contemplating the theory of relativity. Making contingency plans just in case Colonel Jerkwad really does make it to Fuhrer."

There was a pause, then a sigh. "I got you food," said Al. Ed's head snapped up.

Indeed, Al was holding a small package in his hands. Really, actually not that small of a package. A pretty big package if he was accurate about. A _huge_ package, God, he _loved_ his little brother-- and it smelled distinctly of food. _FOOD._

Ed stood and took the package. Then he hugged Al. "Have I mentioned that I love you?"

"Not since the last time I made you breakfast."

Ed pouted. "If you were feeling neglected, you could have just said so. You know I'm an expert coddler."

Al made a little sound that sounded like_ phuhhh._ "Thank you for the offer, but no. Besides, I've got news that will _probably_ have you saying you love me for at least a month."

Ed perked up. "I'm listening."


	5. Day Five

--And endless thank yous to all the fantastic reviewers. Gosh, you have NO CLUE how happy you make me :DD

TheoreticallyEva: Thank you, thank you, thank you! Actually, if I had thought of the Flinstones, it totally would have been, but it was actually a poke at one of my friends... Aand, wonderful, now I have the Flinstones theme song stuck in my head :D

too lazy: Yeah, Ed! That's a good idea! Ed: But... but apologizing to girls is _weird!_

accident prone: LOL. Pfft, God, I've had enough experience trying to muffle hysterically giggles, especially during quiet, tense moments... I've learned that going, "Drowning puppies, drowning puppies, pheeewww..." does NOT work. I would laugh if that happened too. Here I go. HAHAHAHAHA!

AnimeCookie93: Lol, yes! "Winry's in love with you." "(Major Armstrong-like sparkles) Yess! I don't need food! I'll survive on PASSION!" ...Speaking of, I have a couple of Ed/Winry stuff I should probably put up sometime or other….

iMac15: Seriously. Re-JEC-ted! Ed does seem to be in a lot of abusive relationships with women, doesn't he? :D Poor Ed. That's right! Growing boys need food! LOL--(tearful) Here, Ed, take my lunch! (holds out macaroni and cheese) Mustang is just about the most likable jerk there is--and, uh, don't worry, he's gonna get his (sorta) :D I love how you phrased that "collapsed on the sidewalk, and pretty much just gave up on life" Haha! Ra-ra-ra! (pumps pom-poms)

And on to Day Five. This one's a shortie.... In Which Roy Jumps to a Conclusion :)

**DAY FIVE:**

Something was off.

Roy Mustang watched his young subordinate make his rounds around the office, distributing folders without a single complaint so far, no stomach grumbling he could hear, not even a furious rant and/or throwing Roy's belongings across the office. Something was off. And a much as it disturbed the Colonel to admit it, he was...curious about this...peculiar behavior.

No, curious was the wrong word. More like...terrified. Yes, that was it.

Did the lack of food permanently damage the kid or something? He had heard that teenagers needed three balanced meals a day and plenty of sleep or they could have trouble focusing and increased risks of heart failure and medical problems later in life. Had Roy inadvertently set something wrong in Fullmetal's brain? Was it permanent? That thought was plenty disturbing all on its own. But not exactly what terrified him.

What terrified him was the fact that he was not fretting over how Fullmetal's apparent drastic loss of brain cells would affect Roy's career, but how Fullmetal's apparent drastic loss of brain cells would affect _Fullmetal._ And the fact that Roy was feeling something almost like how he would imagine kind of what it might be like if he was feeling just the tiniest dab of...guilt?

Clearly he was terrified for good reason.

Of course, all of this stayed off of his face. The only indication he let into his usual poker-face of there being anything amiss was a small frown, which was how it would stay. Just because he was having a breakdown in his head didn't mean anybody had to know about it.

He usually had exemplary Intel attached to his office, thanks to Hughes, so when Roy Mustang was taken by surprise, there was something _very_ wrong. Roy didn't know if the brat had somehow managed to elude Hughes, or if he'd just given up and stopped trying to earn money at all.

The frown on his face deepened infinitesimally as he mentally cursed the boy's pride. If Edward would just come out and admit that he had no idea how to support himself after all of his years living off military grants, all this trouble could have been avoided. Roy wouldn't have gloated...much. But _noo,_ that stupid, impossible brat had a streak of pride that rivaled Roy's own.

He supposed he knew who to thank for that.

The truth was, he could just _ask_ Fullmetal where, or if, he'd been getting food. But....

But that would mean admitting that he didn't already know.

And Roy Mustang was _not_ going to be the one to give in first. _That _would be unacceptable. Fullmetal would never let him forget it.

So instead Roy just watched him out of the corner of his eye, frowning, and wrote a note to himself to make sure Hughes personally saw into where Ed was going after leaving Headquarters.

If the brat was doing something stupid or dangerous (If Roy had to use any two words to describe his experiences with Edward, they would be those.) in order to get money, he was going to pay _dearly_ for the extra concern--that is, _effort_ that Roy had to exert for his sake.

He continued studying the still frighteningly un-irascible teenager, growing more and more sure that Ed _had _done something idiotic to get that food, and was already planning the punishments by the time Fullmetal prepare to leave Headquarters for--wherever he was going.

Roy Mustang _hated_ being taken by surprise. He glared at the_ stupid, stupid, stupid, just get over your ego and _talk _to me already_ boy's back as he walked out.

---

Edward frowned as he left the military HQ building and rubbed his head, stopping at the foot of the stairs to look over his shoulder at the wide double doors.

"Huh. I guess I really was just imagining that feeling of being watched," he muttered to himself, feeling a little stupid.

He frowned some more, and then shrugged (because he really did feel a lot better now, he must have just been subconsciously dying to get out of there or something), and started making his way to the community center.

Al kept _telling_ him he was getting paranoid. Ed had realized over the years that it was never a good idea to not listen to Al.


	6. Day Six

I have a feeling that if I go on and on with my thank yous, I'll repeat myself and sound like an idiot. So I'll be brief: **_THANK YOU!_**  
iMac15: :D I _do_ have a weakness for those lonely, likable jerks. Haha, I LOVE those moments, because really, can you imagine Ed ten years later? He IS Mustang--albeit shorter (is bricked) Also--random thought--in appearance, Roy and Ed are directly opposite: black hair, blonde hair, pale, tan, black eyes, gold eyes, tall, short (is bricked again), short hair, long hair, blue and white clothes, red and black clothes.... Oh, I'm an expert in that too, heh....? Hughes the Ninja Spy--lololol! RA-RA-RA!  
theretard5892: I...think I died a little when I saw your username in my reviews. Wow. (My mind is BLOWN, forgive me if I make no sense) Yikes. I mean, this is like getting a review from Stephenie Meye--Actually, I'm not going to say that. Ahem. Your reviews are AWESOME. (My thank yous for reviews fail, dear God) Seriously. I was squealing like a pig (uhh, really nice mental image there.)...squealing like something pretty and cute. I'm sorry you don't like my young, accomplished, female OC. But she's prettier than you, pbtth... I kid again, I'm sorry, I should stop doing that...:D See, I had to have a character there, and I had noted the distinct lack of females in this fic, and then I had this sudden urge to have someone flirting with Ed, so... Haha. Random urges for the fail. And, despite the fact that I HAVE A TRIGONOMETRY MIDTERM TOMORROW SO WHAT AM I DOING WRITING FANFICTION?? your problem has been fixed :)  
Juunshi: My first internet cookies!! I shall keep them until they are moldy and hard as cement, and I will pet them, and I will name them George, and they will be my Georges. (hums happily)  
accident prone: LOL. Everything's funny when you're laughing hysterically, even drowning puppies. Sometimes they can make you sober up for a minute but then you just end up snorting all over the place and laughing again.

Aand... an even short shortie. In Which Roy Continues to Conclude Things.

**DAY SIX:**

By the time the next day came around, Roy Mustang felt both relieved and sick to his stomach.

Relieved because he had talked to Hughes, who obligingly pulled out all the stops to track Ed's moneymaking efforts, and came up with...absolutely nothing. Hughes, about as accustomed to being unable to find information as Roy was, proceeded to freak out, too.

So that, at least, made Roy feel slightly better about the whole _concern_ thing. At least he wasn't alone in his fretting.

And then there was the sick to the stomach-ness, simply because Hughes_ hadn't found anything._ What was that brat _doing?_

Whatever it was, it was messing with the kid's brain. The unnatural calm from yesterday seemed even more calm, and even more unnatural. The teenager hadn't so much as raised his voice the entire day; he would stop in the middle of his work sometimes, and just gaze around the room, a small, beatific smile on his face; Roy could have sworn he heard the kid saying 'thank you' to Lieutenant Hawkeye when she handed him a half-foot stack of paperwork.

A shiver went down Roy's spine.

Nothing seemed to faze the boy. Even baiting didn't work. Roy had tried at least four times now to imply, and then to hint, and then to mention, and then to tell Edward _outright _that he was short, short as a bean, short as a bug on the bean, short as the crumb in the bug's mouth on the bean , short as a particle of the crumb in the bug's mouth on the bean.

And Fullmetal replied, serenely and with a slow, almost dazed-looking smile on his face, "You anarchistic, armchair-philosophizing, self-absorbed prick."

And then he had smiled some more, closed his eyes briefly, muttered something to himself, and meandered out of Roy's office, leaving the Colonel staring after him in horror.

From a definitive pattern in his collection of data, Roy Mustang had reached a conclusion, one that he was almost certain was correct: Fullmetal was on drugs.

The only question was... How did he have the money for them?

Colonel Roy Mustang resisted the urge to bang his head into the desk.

---

Ahh. Isn't it nice to see so many people working so nicely together?

Inhale, exhale. Ahhhh.... Mmm. He couldn't wait for his next session tonight. Who knew life could be so…peaceful?

---

If Fullmetal was not back to his usual, obnoxious behavior by tomorrow, Roy Mustang was going to have to take definitive action. There was no way around it. He watched Fullmetal suspiciously, half expecting the boy to spontaneously combust at any moment from retaining all the temper he would normally fling all over the office, at Roy in particular.

Roy couldn't help but wonder where he could get his hands on whatever the kid was smoking.


	7. Day Seven, Part I

Thank you a million-gazillion times to everyone who reviewed, and read, and all that good stuff. Guess who got a 99% on her English midterm? That right, me! (one point off because of a dash misuse, or something like that. L-lol...?)  
iTorchic: Thank you! Oh, that episode was priceless! And--random thought about the anime--wanna hear something lame? I memorized the bit from the Flame vs. Fullmetal episode where Ed's doing this little dance and imitating Roy :DD "Struck out on the philosopher's stone again, huh? How am I supposed to keep funding this goose chase? Money doesn't grow on _trees_ you know! (cheesy wink, hair flick) Hey, where'd you go? Oh, there you are, I couldn't see you behind all my paperwork, I guess because you're so SHORT!" LOLOL... Ahem. Actually, I usually don't update this fast, but you know, it's during midterms and I DO NOT WANT TO STUDY. So. Heh. ^^; Thank you! Woah... o.0 You're psychic! Haha! I can just see Winry's face when they'd come staggering into her house :D So true... soo true. Thank you! I'll definitely do that!  
TheoreticallyEva: Thank you! Have I told you that I _love_ your stories? (I thought I did...) I was so psyched when I saw your name in my reviews :DD

Aand--Day seven, part one! Man, this thing feels like my baby... Hehehehe...hehe...heh...?  
Enjoy :)

**DAY SEVEN:**

"You see, living one day at a time, enjoying one moment at a time, accepting hardship as the pathway to peace, is the only way to be truly, supremely happy with the life you're living," Ed explained to him calmly, while Roy's insides _squirmed._

"Is that so?" he managed to murmur, and sound halfway normal, too. The kid was _stoned. _

"Yes," Fullmetal sighed, contented. "Living in constant dread, living in fear of yourself, making promises you know you can't keep, that's no way to live. We have to learn to accept ourselves, the good and the bad, before we can accept the help of others."

Roy nodded solemnly back, whilst his mind ran around in panicked, headless-chicken circles. How was he meant to get the information out of Fullmetal if the boy's brain was clearly as well as fried? And even if he _did_ manage to get Ed to tell him what's been going on, how could he be sure it was the truth?

Normally, if he was really so hard-pressed to get the truth out of someone, he would just go straight to the whiskey he kept in the back of his office for the really long days, and the chances were that Roy would outdrink, and therefore have a reasonably easy time casually prying whatever he wanted out of, the person. But now was hardly the time to get Fullmetal addicted to alcohol, too.

"Remember," Ed continued, his voice dreamy and far away, "there is no disgrace in facing up to the fact that you have a problem."

Any other time, that sentence coming out of Ed's mouth would mean a lot of mock sympathy, maybe a hand on his heart, and Roy would probably be _this_ close to flaming the brat to a crisp.

"So do you…have a problem?" the Colonel asked, almost dreading the answer.

Ed blinked. "Of course. All of us have problems. But the ones who accept their problem as a problem--a problem, yes, but something that can be fixed! Those are the ones who will heal."

It was getting increasingly harder to not let the panic bleed through his poker-face. "You are on your way to healing, then?"

"Always on the way," Ed murmured in reply. "Always on the way, never more than what you can handle, just one day at a time." He stopped. His eyes flickered closed, and Roy thought for a minute that he had fallen asleep, had passed out, had slipped into a drug-induced coma for all he knew, but just before he could really begin to worry, Ed muttered again, eyes still closed, "One day at a time…."

Forget keeping the whiskey away. This was an emergency.

Roy stood and went over to the small wooden cabinet, Ed's eyes following him curiously. Roy opened it, took two tumblers from inside, pulled out the whiskey Maes had gotten him for New Year's a while back and--

"No!" Ed screamed, horrified.

Roy turned around. "…'No' what?" he asked, confused.

"You don't need to look to alcohol to solve your problems," Ed said desperately, a sort of placating fear in his eyes. "By understanding and confronting what ails you, you can be free of them! If you continue to drown them, they will continue to haunt you, maybe not right now while you're drunk, but they will always lurk beneath the surface!"

Roy stared at Ed, eyebrows descending in vague recognition. He could have sworn he'd heard that line somewhere before….

He looked at the bottle, then back at Ed, then turned and put it experimentally on the desk.

Ed made a little squeak, his eyes flitting back up to Roy with the same frantic expression.

Roy was losing his patience.

"Fullmetal, are you addicted to _drugs_ or _alcohol?"_

"Huh?" said Ed.

Roy studied the teenager's face. Fullmetal had never been good at lying, or even decent at lying; his face was too expressive to hide much of anything at all. And right now Edward looked sincerely confused.

"Nicotine," said Roy, each word slow, watching Ed's face closely. "Marijuana. Cocaine."

Fullmetal just stared, growing more and more bewildered as the list went on.

Okay. So maybe the kid wasn't stoned. Maybe he was just _insane._

"Vodka," he tried instead. "Vermouth, gin, rum."

Ed's head tilted, comprehension dawning. Those he recognized. "What about them?"

"They have to do with where you've been getting food. Don't they."

It was like every joint in the teenager's body was forcibly jerked up and frozen in place. His serene expression went suddenly cagey. "What do you mean?" he asked stiffly.

"You know exactly what I mean," Roy replied flatly. Meanwhile, Roy had _no idea_ what he himself meant.

"It's not like I was breaking the rules or anything," Ed said defensively, sounding much more like Ed. "_They _offered _me_ the food." He paused. Glared at Roy. "I hate your Intel."

Oh yes. Definitely more like Ed. "That's a shame. My Intel is quite fond of you."

Which of course just irritated the boy further, because, of course, he still didn't know who this mysterious Intel was. How utterly predictable, Fullmetal. Roy resisted breathing a sigh of relief. "They offered you food, did they?" Roy asked off-handedly. Ed's frustration paused long enough for him to nod. "And what did you do for them?"

"Nothing," said Ed. The calm was beginning to return to his face at the mention of the mysterious Them.

"Equivalent exchange, Fullmetal," Roy said, eyes narrowing. "They must have told you to do something in return for the food."

Ed was shaking his head before the sentence had finished. "No, no, you see, in the Teen Treatment Center, they don't tell anyone to do anything. We just talk about out own problems, the trouble we got into, and how we try to avoid problems in the future. But there are ready, willing counselors glad to volunteer their help, if you want it. _I,"_ he said proudly, "have chosen to accept it. It was Al's idea--They have free food at all of their meetings, and I decided to make myself a better person, and not starve, at the same time. Even better, it's _anonymous,_ so there's no possibility of nosey commanding officers finding out and bugging you about it. Or so I thought," he added, giving the Colonel a sulky little glare.

Roy stared, unable to wrench his brain past one phrase: "Teen Treatment Center?" He stared a bit more, realized exactly what that meant… "You're going to_ therapy?"_

"We prefer to call it a way to help troubled teens and their families make lasting, life-long changes in a safe, controlled, and loving environment," Ed replied, loftily.

"Troubled…." said Roy faintly, and Ed shot him a glare and if this situation wasn't so _not_ normal it would be almost normal.

"Troubled doesn't mean _insane."_ Fullmetal crossed his arms, looking affronted. "The Teen Treatment Center has a great program. It's not just for alcoholics an' drug users an' obsessive-compulsives an' those kids who are mad all the time."

Aaand… _He's been going to anger management classes. _It felt like everything coming together all at once. "Actually," Roy said, hesitantly. "Yes, it is. Why do you think they let you _in?"_

Ed glared. "It's for anyone with a problem. Like my lack of food."

"No," said Roy slowly. "No, it isn't."

"I will not be hindered by other people inflicting their attitudes on me any longer! I am the only one who can dictate what I want to be. And I am sick and tired of being sick and tired!" Ed declared, utterly brainwashed, slamming a fist on the arm of the couch.

Roy sighed, dragged a hand over his eyes, and then reached over popped open the bottle of whiskey on his desk, to Fullmetal's obvious chagrin.

He ignored the scowling teenager and poured himself a generous amount, glad that he had taken the bottle out. He hadn't realized just how much he needed a drink.


	8. Day Seven, Part II

I'M ALIVE! Sort of. Before all of you kill me in your blinding (I'm sure) righteous rage, let me first say that I am SO, SO, SO, SO SORRY, MY LIFE HAS BEEN ABSOLUTELY CRAZY, AND I AM REALLY, REALLY SORRY D: Also, to my amazing-fantastic 'Adventures of the Fullmeddle Alchemist' readers, ditto.  
There have, however, been a few advantages to my long absence, namely, I got to sit in at an actual anger management class! So that was cool. They had hot pretzels there. It was great. I haven't had a hot pretzel in years.... Um. Anyway.  
I haven't actually edited this yet.... I mean, I spell-checked it.... so I would be eternally grateful for any edits and stuff.  
Also-- ACTs ARE TOMORROW, HELP. My school thought it would just be the funniest thing if we didn't actually have the day off after taking the ACT, so instead we're going back to school afterward and taking a Government test! Well, screw you, Government, I have a mental breakdown and lots of synthetic division scheduled tonight =_=  
Infinity plus twelve thanks to all the wonderful readers and reviewers! I love you guys, keep it coming! (blows more kisses)  
What else? Oh yes-- cyber-cookies will be awarded to the reviewer with the best "Hi my name is ___ and I'm an alcoholic, here's my story" story :DDD  
And here we go. Finally. My shut-up-ance draws near.

In which Roy is Roy-like and Ed is Ed-like (Second to last chapter!) Enjoy ;)

* * *

"I told myself I would stop drinking for a week, but it only lasted two days, and then I was drinking again," Bob confessed. There were sympathetic murmurs around the room, one of which belonged to the counselor, Mr. Ambrose (Just 'Ambrose', because we're all friends here, right? and nobody else in the therapy class had given their last names). "Then I tried to drink only beer, because I heard that you can't get drunk from that," Bob went on, and then stopped. He fiddled with his fingers. Mr. Ambrose and the Teen Treatment class waited patiently, the silence broken only by the loud chewing of one of the new members, Edward. "Turned out you _could_ get drunk on beer," said Bob at last, shrugging a little apologetically. "And that's…uh…pretty much it." Bob shuffled a bit, and the instructor took over.

"That was very good, Bob," said Mr. Ambrose, and the teenagers took that as their cue to clap (most of them unwillingly--their parents were forcing them to be there--and Edward, of course, around his sandwich), as Bob took his seat. "Many people with alcohol problems make all kinds of promises to themselves and to their families. In the end, these promises are impossible to keep. Instead, just try not to drink _today. _ If you do not drink today, you cannot get drunk today." Mr. Ambrose paused, looked each child in the eye, and continued, "You could make your drinks weak. Or you could just drink beer. Or you could not drink cocktails. Or you could only drink on weekends. But if you drink anything with alcohol in it, you get drunk eventually. Isn't that how it goes?" The alcoholics in the group stared stonily back at him. "Just try not to drink today. Because if you don't drink today…."

"…Then you can't get drunk today," the teenagers recited obediently.

Mr. Ambrose nodded. "Just one day at a time. So, who wants to go next?"

Someone's bubblegum popped. Flat, wary glances were distributed among the occupants of the room. The loud chewing persisted, oblivious.

"Edward," said Mr. Ambrose, and the teenager in question blinked at him. "Would you like to go next?"

The boy blinked some more, his cheeks puffed full of food, and somehow he swallowed the giant mouthful and said, "Sure."

Now, Edward. He was a special boy. And not just because of the man in the giant suit of armor that followed him around--his bodyguard? Edward seemed to refer to him as 'Al'--and not to say that the other children _weren't _special. But Edward was one of those rare, immediate success cases. Mr. Ambrose could remember the first time the boy had walked into the Teen Treatment Center, shuffling after his armored friend, eyes darting around and his body language practically screaming that he would much rather fling himself out the nearest window than talk about his problems. He looked rather like he expected the other teenagers to leap up and bite him at any moment, actually.

Then he had caught sight of the buffet table, and his whole face had lit up. Edward had spared just one moment to turn and stare at the armored man, overjoyed and disbelieving and overjoyed, and tell him tremulously, "I love you, Al."

"Uh-huh," said the armor. And Ed had zipped off to check out the food.

...And immediately cut the line by shoving in front of Claire, the regular who had been obsessive-compulsive about her makeup for four years, and making her smudge her mascara. Claire burst into tears while Edward snatched a handful of cookies and stuffed them all into his mouth before looking over his shoulder and muttering, "It wouldn't have helped anyway." --That was when Mr. Ambrose knew that this was The One. Edward was sullen and paranoid and extremely short-tempered, and just _brimming_ with psychological setbacks, and Mr. Ambrose couldn't wait to get into that screwed up little head of his. This Edward would be his Glorious Success.

And now, after just a few days, he was. Edward stood up, handed his sandwich and his glass of punch to the armored man to hold ("Don't you give me that _look _Alphonse, it's just my food. It's not _diseased."_ "Hold your own food!" Edward was making progress there too-- before, it had been near-impossible to separate Edward from his food) and then faced the circle.

"Tell us about a temptation you've had since our last session, Edward," said Mr. Ambrose.

"Well," said the boy peacefully. "You've heard about my boss before."

They had. Extensively.

"Well recently he's been particularly bizarre- but I have persevered," he said, his voice rising a little. Mr. Ambrose nodded and smiled, imagining his colleagues' faces when he was presented with his inevitable promotion. "Is there any specific trial you'd like to share with us?" he asked.

"Sure," said Edward, smiling, but Mr. Ambrose noticed that it wasn't quite as gentle anymore; now it was a bit…pointed around the edges. "From what I've learned here, I know that someone trying to recover from alcoholism shouldn't have _any_ alcohol at all, even if they think they will be able to stop there. Right?"

Mr. Ambrose nodded. The other teenagers watched with slack mouths and unfocused eyes.

"So he takes out this bottle of whiskey and I'm like, I _try_ to tell him this stuff, but he's all like, _noo,_ I know _better _than you, I can drink a _giant glass_ of whiskey and _not get drunk at all!"_ The last word ended on a screechy note, his face a little red and his breath coming fast, all as per Edward's usual reaction to talking about his boss.

That was when Mr. Ambrose realized, _If I could just cure him of his frustration concerning his boss, once and for all, _nobody_ would be able to deny my superior methodology. I could be a worldwide phenomenon. I could win the Nobel Peace prize, I could-_

There was a loud, short knock at the door, jerking Mr. Ambrose out of his fantasy, and a dark-haired man in a military uniform stepped in, followed by five other soldiers, one of which was rolling in a wide, flat cart.

The circle of teenagers and Mr. Ambrose stared. The breath Edward had taken to continue his story turned into a strangled curse in the back of his throat.

"Oh," said the dark-haired man, his eyes finding Edward (whose jaw clenched so hard it looked painful) and one corner of his mouth turning up. "I hope we haven't interrupted anything?"

Mr. Ambrose was halfway to assuring him that no, he wasn't interrupting but what was the military doing here? when Edward got there first and snarled, "_Yes,_ you _have,_ actually, why are _you_ here?"

The officer (a Colonel, Mr. Ambrose noted from the stars on his uniform) smiled blinding-bright back at the teenager. The men behind him gazed around the Teen Treatment Center, distinctly nonplussed. "Please, don't let our presence keep you from your discussion. We are here merely to join this wonderful facility in aiding those less fortunate than ourselves."

"Really?" said Mr. Ambrose.

_"Really?"_ said Edward flatly, his eyes narrowed to golden slits.

The armored man looked back and forth between the Colonel and the boy, just as the confused as the rest of them.

The Colonel smiled some more. "Recently there have been requests for a more active role from our government in the fight against hunger and homelessness. Of course, I feel quite strongly about the matter, don't you?" Mr. Ambrose opened his mouth to reply, but the officer didn't give him the chance. "Therefore I have resolved to invest as much of my time and effort as is possible to this cause because, and I'm sure you agree, there is no greater joy in the world than helping your fellow man."

Now, Mr. Ambrose was an astute man. And he had noticed two things about the rapidly deteriorating typicality of the situation: One, that the Colonel hadn't stopped smiling once during his speech, and two, that Edward had gone from deathly pale to tomato-sauce red to an impressive shade of dark purple, all since the soldiers had arrived.

And Mr. Ambrose couldn't help but think that the only person that Edward had such an explosive reaction to was his notorious boss.

Hm.

"Edward, do you know this man?" Mr. Ambrose asked.

Ed stiffened. The colonel looked at him, one eyebrow just slightly raised, his expression almost like amusement.

Edward's jaw worked for the span of three heartbeats until finally, with what looked like great difficulty, he managed to pry his teeth far enough apart to mutter, "No." and then more loudly, more venomously, "No, I've never seen this man in my life."

The colonel didn't refute that, didn't show much of a reaction at all, just a little half-quirked smile, which made Mr. Ambrose feel…confused.

"Colonel…?" he began, and the man graciously supplied, "Mustang. Colonel Roy Mustang."

"Colonel Mustang," Mr. Ambrose tried again. "While I appreciate you efforts for the homeless and hungry- this isn't a military program. With all due respect, why _are_ you and your men here?"

Three of his men had actually deserted their superior officer's side, taking up positions at the buffet table instead and fighting over the chicken wings, leaving only the officer with the cart and a ramrod-straight, utterly blank-faced blonde woman. Colonel Mustang…smiled.

"I'm sure you of all people" --was it just his imagination, or was he being mocked?-- "would understand the severity of this problem," the dark-haired man said in a low, smooth voice. "We must join together with who we can--and not only do you understand my aspirations but you seem to have quite a bit of food as well…."

He was probably imagining it.

Mr. Ambrose said slowly, "I suppose you can take the leftovers."

And finally Mr. Ambrose realized what had been off about Roy Mustang's smiles, as the Colonel "smiled" so widely it was difficulty to mistake it for anything other than what it was--a huge, _extremely_ satisfied smirk.

"Thank you _so_ much," he purred.

The Colonel turned to his men and suddenly he was the very soul of efficiency and professional indifference, and the other soldiers quickly followed suit, if with a bit less grace. "Gather up the food and bring it back to Headquarters," Mustang ordered, and the men scrambled to obey.

Maybe he should… Ah, well…. Mr. Ambrose considered, really, really considered, telling them that they weren't quite done with the food yet, but good manners won out and so he just watched, bemused, while the men loaded the food onto the cart, taking the punch and the forks and the tablecloth with them.

Meanwhile, Edward's face had gone just about the color of his coat, and he stared at the soldiers as if he wanted nothing more than to KILL. Them. Slowly.

One of the officers, rather short and round with red hair and a halfway apologetic smile, slipped over to the man in the suit of armor and plucked Edward's food out of his hands.

"Hey, waitaminute-" the armored man (Mr. Ambrose had to wonder, a little guiltily, if the man wore all that armor to make up for his strangely high-pitched voice) protested.

Edward _snapped._ Mr. Ambrose saw it happen, saw the blonde open his mouth, teeth still bared, saw his promotion flash before his eyes--and before the boy could start screaming obscenities he cut in quickly, _just_ slightly panicky, "Edward, why don't you finish your story?"

The Colonel's head snapped up, interested, and that little smile spread across his lips again like he couldn't have stopped it if he'd wanted to. Edward's fists clenched and unclenched and twitched and clenched and _begged_ for something to destroy, preferably something uniformed and smirking.

And gradually, gradually, Edward relaxed, took deep breaths and concentrated on his happy place and Mr. Ambrose wanted to cry he was so proud of this kid. The soldiers had finished loading up the food; Edward _breathed_--in…. out. They began rolling the cart out, darting glances at Ed over their shoulders exchanging freaked-out looks, and Edward breathed and breathed and Mr. Ambrose could almost _see_ the _ignore, ignore, ignore_ in his resolutely-NOT-glaring-thank-you-very-much eyes. The door shut behind the soldiers and the food--the Colonel and the blonde woman standing behind him hadn't moved.

Edward- God bless him- just tightened his jaw and said calmly, "Where was I?"

"You were describing your boss's alcoholism problems."

The teenager actually winced. Colonel Mustang's eyebrows rose, and so did the lieutenant's.

"Right," said Ed, closing his eyes and shaking his head like a dog shaking off water, still stubbornly not looking anywhere near the officers, the _ignore, ignore, ignore _now in his voice too. "So anyway, I told him not to but he didn't listen. Thinking back, I don't even know why I bothered to warn him at all-- he's an insufferable jerk" --Ed's voice rising right along with the colonel's eyebrows-- "and he's not interested in making the change to become a better person." Edward's eyes narrowed at the circle of teenagers, and Mr. Ambrose got the distinct impression that the boy would much rather be scowling at Mustang instead.

"You could invite him to one of the adult meetings," Mr. Ambrose suggested, mildly.

Edward made a sound through his nose that was something like a laugh and something like a growl but not quite either. "No. No, I don't think that would be a good idea. Like I said, he's not interested in changing; he's the wrong sort of person for these sessions, he doesn't have the right intentions. Even if he did come, and I highly doubt he would, he would just sit there looking at everybody else and _smirking. _He doesn't care about healing. His presence would just belittle the ones who came because they wanted to be better people." Glare, glare, the tiniest flick of his eyes toward the soldiers before he could train his gaze back to the circle, glare, glare, _glare._

And before Mr. Ambrose could respond- "Your name was...Edward, right?" There was something about the Colonel's voice, quiet and silky-smooth and smiling, that made all the noise in the room still, save for what sounded like metal grinding on metal.

"That's me," Edward said, his voice amiable enough but his fists clenched hard enough to burst, and if looks could kill, Colonel Mustang would be going home in a hand-basket.

Meanwhile, Colonel Mustang gave no indication of fearing for his life, or really noticing Edward's expression at all. "Well, I'm glad you're here," the colonel said, smiling in a way that Mr. Ambrose figured must be gentle. "The Treatment Center is doing you well."

"Doing me well for WHAT?" Edward demanded, whirling on the Colonel. "How would _you_ know what's doing me well anyway!?"

"Well..." the Colonel drawled, stretching the word into a two-syllabled _we-ell...._ "You're here for anger management, aren't you?"

"I. AM. _NOT!" _Edward shrieked, arms flailing.

"No?" the man asked, in a voice aiming halfheartedly for surprised concern.

_"NO! _I. DO. NOT. HAVE. _ANGER PROBLEMS!" _ came the shrieked reply, voice shooting up an octave at 'anger problems.'

It didn't matter anymore what the colonel said. Hurricane Edward was on the loose. The other teenagers inconspicuously slumped lower in their seats, and Mr. Ambrose could only watch, and resist the urge to cover his eyes.

Colonel Mustang said, "Ah" like he was really sort of interested in what would happen if he pressed that big red button marked APOCALYPSE....

"I DON'T NEED TO BE HERE YOU PSYCHOTIC PUFFED-UP _MORON!"_ Ed screamed. "I'M JUST HERE UNTIL I GET BACK ON MILITARY PAYROLL! LIKE I GIVE A FLYING FREAK ABOUT THIS IDIOTIC TREATMENT CENTER- BOTH OF US KNOW I'M JUST HERE FOR THE _FOOD!"_

Total.

Utter.

Silence.

Silence that felt like going deaf in contrast to Ed's ear-shattering tirade.

And Edward stood frozen in the middle of the room, eyes wide and mouth still open, and Mr. Ambrose said, quietly, coldly, "Idiotic treatment center...?"


	9. Day Seven, Part III

FINALLY I GOT OFF MY LAZY BUTT AND FINISHED THIS! I know you all hate me, but I hope we can put aside our differences enough for you to enjoy the last chapter of this story and leave a nice little comment. Here are a few suggested reviews: 1) TELL ME WHERE YOU LIVE SO I CAN KILL YOU; 2) These puns are so bad that I have lost all respect for you and anything you have said and may ever have the potential to say in the future; 3) I won't kill you if you update your other stories PRONTO; 4) Paul?; 5) Shut up already and get to the story.  
Which I will.  
On a random, shamelessly-self-promotional note, now that this story is over, check out my other Fullmetal Alchemist fics and see what you like, or just message me to rant or fangirl or wax philosophical. I'd love to hear from you.  
Thank you so, so, so, SO much to everyone who has humored me for this long. You guys make me absurdly happy, and I hope I can repay a little bit of that with my stories. THANK YOU! If you ever meet me in real life I will give you a flyingtacklehug. So WATCH OUT.  
Onwards and upwards, then!

* * *

"My, what progress in just twenty-two minutes," Mustang mused, eyes straight ahead and hands in his pockets and a really very admirable attempt at keeping the smugness out of his voice. "It all gets easier from here, Fullmetal: the first step is admitting that you don't have a problem."

"LET ME KILL HIM!" Ed screamed, flailing against Al's arms.

"Calm down first!" Al yelled back.

That gave Ed pause. "And then I can kill him?" he asked hopefully.

"...Just don't get caught," Al replied, resigned.

"Well, that's what _you're_ here for, isn't it? For helping me get away with stuff?"

"I'm also here to get you food, don't forget that."

"Oh yeah," Ed said thoughtfully, maybe not fully getting Al's ever-so-slight edge of sarcasm. "And _he's_ here to take it away!" he cried, whirling on Mustang, at last remembering his blinding fury.

"Must we have this conversation every time we meet?" Mustang said, his voice betraying no particular sympathy or interest. "I am not, in fact, out to get you, Fullmetal. I am merely attempting to teach you awa-"

"Yes, YES, you prat. You're accusing ME of driving all of our conversations in the same direction? 'I'm not trying to teach you how to starve. This is a lesson on _awareness of funds and responsible spending,'"_ Ed mimicked, with a sardonic little wriggle that was presumably supposed to remind them of Roy. For the most part it just reminded them very strongly of Ed.

"Yes, actually," said Mustang slowly. "That _is_ what I was trying to do."

"Noo," said Ed, a wry little grin spreading across his face, his eyes still promising murder. "You were trying to give me a hard time."

Roy frowned. "It was a perfectly reasonable, unbiased-"

"Actually, _no, _it _wasn't._ You see, I'm a freaking _underage state alchemist-"_

"The only job that eliminates is prostitution," Mustang said, very slowly.

"For the first time in your miserable, soon-to-be-over life can you PLEASE just SHUT UP?" Ed replied through gritted teeth, one eye twitching. The 'please' was rather impressive- for the tiniest, most fleeting moment it almost made them wonder if the anger management had done some good after all.

Roy, Riza, and Al just stared back at him. Ed, looking slightly less murderous, went on, "Nobody wants to hire a state alchemist. Nobody wants anything to do with state alchemists, but a couple of people _might_ be willing to hire one if he can make himself_ really_ useful. _But, _because most people are idiots, they consider age a direct proportion to usefulness."

"And if we're not allowed to use our alchemy, how can we prove them otherwise?" Al interjected, and Ed nodded solemnly in agreement.

"Taking that into account, _sir,"_ Edward went on, the 'sir' coated heavily with sarcasm, "what sort of jobs, precisely, did you intend for us to find?"

Roy Mustang stared at them, blank and uncomprehending. After a full minute of silence, still with no answer forthcoming, Ed turned to Al and said thoughtfully, "Maybe he wanted us to mug people? I could do that."

"That's illegal. Maybe we could have joined a construction crew?"

"That's alchemy. Maybe he was thinking we'd kidnap people and hold 'em for ransom. I could do that too."

"That's _also_ illegal." Al paused. "...He did mention prostitution earlier," he said, rather hesitantly.

"That's. That's," Ed choked, blanching. "I'm going to pretend that last suggestion never happened, okay?"

"What? He said it like three minutes ago."

"I'm going to pretend_ that _never happened, too, thanks."

"I was never just taking out my frustrations on you," Roy interjected, at last finding his voice, stumbling a bit over the words. "I had plenty of reasons for revoking those funds-"

"Yeah, and I'll tell you what they were," Ed said, a little smirk curving his lips. He ticked a finger off. "Reason One: 'Cause Ed's a brat. Reason Two: Because I like to see him suffer, although I also like to pretend that I don't. Reason Three: 'Cause I'm a bas-"

"I was teaching you an important lesson in responsibility!" Roy cried.

"If that was true, there would have been _some _way we could have made money without reverting to felonies!" Ed shot back. "Unless, that is, you were hoping that we would keep begging. But then again, do you honestly think _that_ would be considered a lesson in responsibility?"

There was a long, flabbergasted silence, in which it finally sank in that Roy was easily as petty as Ed was, the only real difference between the two being how much power they had to carry out their pettiness.

The moment of revelation was broken by a loud, echoing, somewhat obnoxious serious of BONG...BONG...BONGs; Ed perked up, raising his head and glancing around like a prairie dog sensing an upcoming meal.

"Oh, look," he said conversationally, flashing an only-slightly-pointed smile, "It's twelve. Seems like the week is up. You know, I think I really learned a lot from this lesson. How to manage my funds reasonably and productively...the nuances of finding and keeping a chosen career...the fact that the steak and potatoes at Grabber and Snarf's is five marks and thirty-eight cenz..."

Roy held out a ten-mark bill and said flatly, "Get out of here, and don't come back tomorrow. In fact, take the week off. _No, I insist,_" he added loudly, before Ed had even opened his mouth.

"Weeell," said Ed slowly, dragging the word out as if to savor its sweetness. He smiled at Mustang for a bit, just _smiled,_ if not - Roy thought - rather evilly. And then, unable to contain his giddiness any longer, he snatched the bill abruptly from Mustang's hand and twirled around and around with it, cackling gleefully. "Didja see that, Al? I totally won that argument! I won, and he lost! He LOST, Al, and I WON!" Ed stopped spinning and swayed for a moment, slightly cross-eyed but grinning. Then he threw his head back and LAUGHED.

"He's lost it," said Al matter-of-factly. "I'm not completely sure it was there to begin with, but it's definitely not there anymore."

"Come on, Al!" Ed shouted over his shoulder, already sprinting down the street. "Let's go stuff our faces and spend the whole day in the library. Now that my fines are paid I bet we can get out a ton of new books!"

Roy dropped his head onto his loyal lieutenant's shoulder, defefated.

"Oh, and speaking of fines, you might be receiving some fines from the Teen Treatment Center for impersonating a patient and intruding on private sessions. And probably from the Eastern police for defacing public property and disturbing the peace." Ed's cheery voice was beginning to fade away as the two boys took off toward the restaurants. "Not to mention harassing some local stores and soup kitchens... If they're particularly touchy about it they might even sue you!" Even as the Fullmetal Alchemist's dwindled into non-existence as they turned the corner, Roy could hear the slightly-maniacal laughter echoing ominously after him.

"If I may say so, sir, I think in attempting to part Edward from his food, you may have, ah...bitten off more than you could chew," Riza said, utterly straight-faced.

Roy groaned.

"I'm sorry, sir," she said, patting him patronizingly on the head as the teeniest of smiles quirked at her mouth.

"I need a drink, Hawkeye," Roy muttered into her sleeve.

"I know, sir. I know." She patted him once more, pried him carefully off her shoulder, and began to firmly push him away from the Treatment Center. Somewhere not so far away, Ed was still cackling over his victory - something he was unlikely to stop doing within his newly-granted vacation. Or within the next year. Or ever.

Meanwhile, Roy _really _needed a drink.

**~End**


End file.
